


Finally, Freedom

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, Angst, As In Dreambubbles, Canonical Character Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Everyone's Out of Character, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scars, Serious Injuries, They Heal Eventually, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:06:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1567325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dreams are a method of escape, a way to flee Her overwhelming, torturous grasp... but he tells you it isn't a dream. </p><p>Do you believe him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finally, Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> usually i try to wait a bit before uploading another story [until the hits on the previous one hit 100, tbh] but i decided to be lax with this one and the next one, because the pairings aren't that popular. 
> 
> plus i've had this saved in drafts for almost a month now and it's about to get deleted so here u go have fun
> 
> In case anyone wanted to know, my head canon for Psiioniic's scars and injuries is basically [this](http://radioactivejackalope.tumblr.com/post/86013309590/worrossyas-what-would-leave-a-scar-like-this), which is the raddest special effects makeup ever [tw for the link, btw, it's a little graphic]

You dream.

 

It doesn't happen often, and it's rarer still that you have dreams as pleasant as this, but it has occurred a few times in your sweeps and sweeps of imprisonment. _She_ usually doesn't let you rest long enough to delve into REM sleep, long enough to escape _Her_ for a short time, but you think _She_ must be busy with something else for a while, and you plan on taking advantage of this rare occurrence as much as you are capable. 

 

You're warm, for once, warm and relaxed and laid out half on something that yields only slightly to your weight, not strung up in the same position you've been trapped in for so long. There's a hand carding through your hair, a soft voice murmuring things you can't really focus on, filling your ears with clipped consonants and stretched vowels. 

 

You shift. 

 

"Psiioniic?" you hear, and that hand brushes across your face, long fingers wiping away some of the wetness there. Have you been crying? You haven't cried since the tenth sweep of your service to the Empire had passed. It's been so long… 

 

When you open your eyes, you're met with a haze of blurry shapes and colours. You haven't been able to see clearly since your thirtieth sweep of service, the Empress's angry screeching damaging you in more ways than one. You can make out a vaguely troll shaped blur above you, though, large and imposing and… violet?

 

"You're awake," he says, and you can see the little blurs on either side of the larger blur flutter wildly, "Thank god, you're awake."

 

You don't know how to react for a moment. You're confused, the migraine you've lived with every single day for thousands of sweeps flaring and subsiding in waves, like the tides, you can't think straight and your face is wet, have you been crying? You haven't cried since the tenth sweep of your service to the Empire had passed… 

 

"This is a nice dream," you finally decide, and your voice is rough and hoarse from screaming. You reach out with shaking, weak hands and grab the thin fabric covering the other troll; you always have your hands back, in the good dreams, and your legs too, flesh and blood and bone from the knee down instead of a mass of writhing biocables. The cloth is cool against your fingers, with a  smooth texture that feels really nice against your skin and you kind of want to rub your face against it, but you don't want to spoil it with your tears. 

 

"Oh, love, you ain't dreamin'," he says, and his hands touch your back, slowly sweeping down the curve of your spine. There's a harsh pinch of pain, and one of the biocables embedded in your spinal ports flops to the ground beside you. 

 

You repetitively rub your hands over the fabric in your grasp, trying to block out the uncomfortable stimuli. Someone on the outside must be adjusting your hardware, and you don't want to the feeling to wake you up. You want to stay here. 

 

"You… you're dead, Psii. You died. This is a dream bubble, don't ask me t' explain the logistics cause I ain't got the slightest clue, but it's like… life after death. You're not stuck on that godforsaken ship anymore."

 

Another pinch, and another cable falls to the floor. And another. And another. They must be doing a maintenance check. It hurts, it hurts and you want it to stop but you're used to pain, by now. You let out a soft whine anyways, just the smallest of sounds because sometimes it makes you feel better, to vocalize, to remind yourself you still have a voice, that you're still something other than an emotionless, unfeeling machine. 

 

" _She_ would never have let me die," you whisper, because _She_ wouldn't, _She_ hadn't, even long past your natural lifespan _She_ kept you alive and enslaved, tormenting you for sweeps and sweeps and _She_ would have never let you escape. 

 

"She didn't have a choice. She went too far, traveled too long. Gl'bgolyb got hungry."

 

Another cable. Your twelve thoracic ports are empty, as well as the three cervical ports. His hands dance over your back, massaging away a millennia of built up stress and pain, soothing the aching scars and ghosting over the bruises and burn marks covering your shoulders and sides. That plus the cloth sliding over your fingers knocks you into a state of almost complete calm, and you are relaxed and you feel safe and you look up at him as best you can and chirr, the sound choked and rusty. You haven't had a reason to chirr in a long, long time. 

 

"Dualscar…" 

 

His head bows, and when he touches his forehead to yours you can finally see his face clearly. His eyes are blank white, and there's violet blood streaked down the side of his face, but that doesn't matter because he's _crying_ , crying and holding you as close as he can, one hand pressed against your back, the other buried in your hair. 

 

"I'm sorry," he gasps, "I'm so fuckin' sorry, I tried to get to you, I tried, I swear I wouldn't'a left you, but she kept me away, I tried, I tried, I'm sorry…" 

 

You detach one of your hands from his shirt and reach up, touching his face. His skin is cool compared to yours, smooth except for the raised ridges of his scars. He's exactly like how you remember, except his eyes. His eyes are dead. He's dead. You watched him die, _She_ made you watch him die, you know he's _dead_. 

 

"Don't let me wake up," you say, because you cannot accept that this isn't the best dream you've ever had, you can't get your hopes up only to have them dashed again, you can't taste heaven only to be pulled back into hell, "Don't- Dualscar, please don't let me wake up."

 

He cradles you to his chest and you curl into him, limbs trembling and weak from disuse but you force yourself to move anyways, force yourself to wrap your arms around him and clutch him to you because you never want this to end. You never want him to leave you again. 

 

"You're never goin' back, I swear," he says, and presses the lightest of kisses to your face, a barely there brush of lips and you want more but you've overwhelmed at the same time, "I promise, you're never goin' back t' the ship."

 

You shiver in his hold, because he sounds so resolute, so adamant, that you can't help but believe him, even though you know it'll just hurt more in the end if you do. He's never lied to you, though. Never, not once, has Dualscar lied to you, even the times you desperately wished he would.

 

He's never lied to you before, so why would he start now? 

 

Why would he give you false hope? Because as much as you wish it were so, the Empress would never let you escape. _She_ has kept you in _Her_ grasp for thousands of sweeps, despite your best efforts… so why would _She_ let you go now?

 

"I love you," you say, shutting your eyes, "I miss you."

 

He kisses you softly, all lips and tongue and no teeth, gentle with you like you're made of glass, like you're something precious to him, and it's been so long since you were last treated with such kindness that you can't stop your tears or the desperate way you sling your arms around him, holding him close. You're crying, it's been so long since you'd last cried, you haven't cried since the tenth sweep of your service to the Empire had passed but you love him and miss him and now, for a short time at least, he's here, with you, and you can't stop the tears from falling.

 

You ache with love for him, with love and pain and desperation and sheer, unrelenting agony because you're sure this is a dream, a horrible, _torturous_ dream, and you'll be ripped away from him soon enough. You can't stop the thoughts racing through your head, your brain screaming "how much longer do I have?" every second that passes. You can't just lay back and enjoy the time you have with him, as fleeting as it may be, because you want to memorize everything, remind yourself of every little detail you've forgotten during your sweeps of service. He's cool and smooth under your hands, though, patient and implacable as the seas, and when he wraps his arms around you and holds you to his chest you feel like you've been caught in his current, unable to resist even if you desired to do so. 

 

You don't. 

 

The steady beating of his heart quells your desperation as it calms you, as the hands running up and down your metal plated, damaged spine sooth your body's nearly incontrollable spasms. Pain has been your constant companion for so long that the lack of it confuses you, makes your head spin, makes you dizzy but you don't think it's an entirely bad feeling. The aching of your ports eases with every brush of his fingers and the chill of his touch and the scent of salt and sea soothes your ever present migraine. 

 

He croons, chest rumbling with the noise, and you trill in response, catching the silk of his shirt in your hands and running the sleek fabric through your fingers. You like smooth things, glossy and polished and frictionless, things that slide over your skin with ease, things that remind you of him and his touch and his clothes. The textures relax you, keep you calm, and he seems to notice because when he shifts you into his arms he does so in a way that lets you keep his shirt in your grasp. 

 

"You're safe now," he murmurs, and stands, lifting you effortlessly, "You're safe now, an' I ain't ever lettin' you go ever again, love."

 

You don't know how long he walks, but the sway of his steps lulls you, his touch cooling your hot, inflamed flesh and his voice keeping you grounded in the here and now. He speaks, so much, says he loves you and he’ll never leave you and that you’re safe, you’re safe and you’re never going back to that _fucking_ ship, and you desperately want it to be true. You want him to be right. You want to stay with him forever. 

 

He sets you in an ablution trap and washes the tacky, viscid blood from your ports, and the soap stings but being clean feels so much _better._  His hands feel so good rinsing the gore and grease from your hair, cleaning the oil and buildup away from the port housings and the cool water is the best sensation you’ve felt besides his touch in ages. 

 

“I… “

 

He pauses, his hands hovering over your skin like he’s afraid he’s hurt you, and you reach up with trembling limbs to grasp his fingers and hold them to you. You tilt your head and he’s there, taking up your field of vision, an indistinct blur but still so recognizably your matesprit that it hurts. 

 

“I love you. Thank you.”

 

“No need t’ thank me, darlin’,” he says, voice low, rumbling in his chest and it reminds you of rolling thunder and lightning storms and when he drops a kiss to your forehead you surprise him by tilting your face and catching his lips with yours instead. 

 

He brushes your wet hair from its place plastered against your cheek and hums, a soft, pleased sound, and you love him so much you want to die. 

 

You’re aware that you aren’t whole, not anymore, that you’re broken, maybe beyond repair, but he doesn’t seem to care. He sees your damaged hardware, with all it’s busted parts and mangled pieces, and he still loves you, still touches you like he wants you, still holds you close to him and doesn’t cringe away when you touch him in return, with your clumsy, disused limbs. 

 

It makes your chest ache in a way it hasn’t in a long, long time. You love him so much, and he’s wrong, he’s so wrong, you _do_ need to thank him because you’re not sure anyone else would continue to pity you after such a hideously, painfully long time, or still pity you after you'd become so inutile and obsolete. You were stuck in _Her_ ship for thousands upon thousands of sweeps, night in and night out serving the mistress who’d killed your friends, your family, your lover, and he’d… he’d waited for you. He’d waited for you and even though you are now bruised, bleeding, broken, changed, he still cares for you. 

 

You lean against him, and he picks you up in strong arms and carries you again, to a new place, dark and quiet and filled with soft things that brush soothingly against your skin, textures and patterns you catch under your fingertips and it’s been so, so long since you’d felt anything but the rigid, sickly warm biowires and the rough gloves of the ones who performed perfunctory maintenance on your mechanical parts that it takes a monumental effort on your part not to cry again, from sheer, beautifully agonizing overstimulation.

 

You’re tired, so tired, but you’re afraid to fall asleep here, just in case you wake up imprisoned, wake up grafted back to that unholy amalgamation of organic mechanics, mind attached to too many data processes, too many information packages to count. You haven’t been receiving systems alerts here, but the few times you’d managed to dream they hadn’t interrupted your sleep cycle. In their place, consistent error messages ping against your brainstem, revealing a glitch in your mental processing systems, one that you can’t seem to feel, identify, locate, or fix. 

 

You’re not sure what it means. 

 

“You look exhausted,” Dualscar murmurs, and the vibrations of his chest reverberate through your body, strong and powerful and calming, “Try to sleep, darlin’, I’ll watch over your dreams. Everythin’ will make more sense come nightfall.”

 

“I don’t want to wake up… back there,” you rasp, hiding your face in the fabric of his shirt, shivering as his hands skim down the ports in your spine, “If I fall asleep… I don’t want to- I don’t-“

 

“I swear t’ every last deity, every idol, every divinity, every greater power, that you will not go back there,” he says, and his voice tolls like deep church bells, solemn and truthful, and you can tell he’s not lying but… 

 

“…Promise?”

 

You mangle the word, lisping it out through jagged, mismatched teeth, but he croons low and nuzzles your horns, tracing over the lighting scars across your back and sides with cool fingers. 

 

“Promise. You’re never goin’ back, love, you’re stuck here with me for the rest’a existence, an’ I ain’t lettin’ go’a you easy.”

 

It’s been such a long time since you’d seen him last, since you’d been ripped from his arms, kicking and screaming. Such a long time since he’d held you like this, since you’d felt so loved, so safe. You don’t remember a time here you weren’t afraid for your life, on the run, even when you were with him, you always felt hunted, always feared you would be caught and both of you would be executed, but… He’s relaxed, the most relaxed you’ve ever seen him, and the way he’s curled around you, guarding you on all sides, it makes your tense muscles go lax and eases your ever present fear. 

 

You make a choice. You believe him. You believe him when he says you aren’t going back, you wrap your arms around his neck and cling and  _believe_ , because you desperately want to, you desperately believe he’s telling the truth because if he is, you’re free. You’re free of _Her_ , _Her_ torments, _Her_ orders, _your_ pain and suffering, you’re free of it all. 

 

“I love you,” you say, tired, weary, and he hugs you closer, tucks your head under his chin and kisses the tip of one cracked horn. 

 

“I love you as well, darlin’. Now, please, sleep. I’ll explain everythin’ in more detail next nightfall.”

 

Your hands bury themselves in his hair, pulling him close, keeping up as much bodily contact as possible, but with his soothing ministrations and the quiet, soft little tunes he’s humming in your ear, you find yourself drifting off in minutes. Yout last though, before you fall asleep, is that you are so, so happy to finally be dead. 


End file.
